


His Fault

by evilwriter37



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Nightmares, Nogitsune Trauma, Stiles!Whump, Suicide, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27382006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilwriter37/pseuds/evilwriter37
Summary: The nogitsune convinces Stiles to perform seppuku.
Relationships: Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48





	His Fault

It was dark. The air was musty and sharp all at once. Stiles didn’t have a clue where he was or how he’d ended up here. He held out his hands, trying to feel for anything, maybe a light switch. His palms brushed against wood, like a door. He blinked, trying to get his eyes adjusted to the dark, but it wasn’t working. It was all encompassing blackness. 

He ran his hands down, found a door handle. He jiggled it, but it wouldn’t open. It was locked.

“Hey!” Stiles yelled. He didn’t know where he was, but he had to get out. “Someone let me out! Please! Someone help!” He hoped he was yelling loud enough to be heard, that someone was out there and could hear his plight. 

He jiggled the handle again, and then the door opened. He stumbled out into dim light, the moon shining through the windows and onto the desks around him. He was in the school.

_ How did I get here?  _ Stiles thought, confused as all hell. He looked around, then behind him. He’d been in the chemistry closet. Now he was even more confused. How had he gotten stuck in there? Stiles  _ had  _ been having lapses of memory recently. Maybe this was one of those times. Or maybe he’d somehow blacked out. 

_ Well, time to leave.  _ Stiles went for the door, but then noticed a message on the board.

**Your fault**

What did that mean? What was his fault? Was the message even directed at him?

And as he watched, another message appeared underneath the first one, written in chalk.

**Your fault**

Stiles took a step back, blinking in confusion. What was he witnessing? Yes, he’d run into the supernatural before, but this was something new. Were… were ghosts a thing? Were they real?

“No, that’s stupid,” he voiced out loud. 

Even as he watched, the message appeared again, and again, over and over and over. 

**Your fault**

**Your fault**

**Your fault**

“What’s my fault?” Stiles asked. He felt stupid talking to the chalkboard, but he had to ask. 

Suddenly, a book fell from the shelf behind him, loudly thumping onto the ground. Stiles whipped around, heart pounding, and he saw a figure he’d been seeing a lot recently, one he recognized: the nogitsune.

“Her death, Stiles,” it said in its guttural voice. Stiles had the distinct feeling the thing was staring at him though it had bandages over its eyes. 

“Am… am I dreaming?” Stiles asked. This thing only visited him in dreams, it seemed. 

“No, Stiles,” it told him. “You don’t remember driving here?”

Stiles backed up against the chalkboard, not caring if he got chalk all over his hoodie. “No,” he said, voice shaking a little. He really didn’t. He didn’t know what to believe. The nogitsune lied to him. That was its nature, wasn’t it? But, Stiles looked down at his hands, and all ten fingers were there: no more, no less. And he could read. So, he wasn’t dreaming. That frightened him terribly. He felt himself begin to tremble. 

“Whose death?” Stiles asked. No one had died incredibly recently in Beacon Hills, not since the Darach. He inched towards the door. Maybe he could escape. He didn’t know how fast this thing could move. 

The nogitsune loped forward, bandaged hands out to either side. Though it was blind, it didn’t bump into anything, like it had the lay of the land, though Stiles was pretty sure it had never been here before. 

“ _ Hers _ ,” it intoned. “Your mother’s.”

Stiles swallowed hard. His dad had told him the same thing in a hallucination before. That’s what Stiles felt. He felt like his mother’s death had been his fault. He rationally knew that she’d been sick, but… but  _ still _ . It  _ was  _ his fault, right?

“How do you know?” Stiles asked. 

The thing stopped, as if pondering that question. Then, it pressed a finger to its head. “Because I’m in  _ here _ , Stiles.”

Stiles’ heart was pounding, trying to burst free from his chest. “O-okay. Then what’s my real name?” That was something he’d only ever told Scott. 

“Mieczysław,” the thing answered, and that had Stiles’ heart stopping. It knew his name. Oh god, it  _ knew _ . Stiles felt terrified tears stinging in his eyes and his sinuses. God, he didn’t want to cry. 

“I’m done with you,” Stiles said. He went for the door as fast as he could, but then the nogitsune was on him, and the sweet smell of death and decay reeked in his nose. It grabbed him with a strength Stiles hadn’t known it possessed and slammed him against the wall. 

“No, Stiles. Not until we play the game.”

“What game?” Now tears were running freely. Stiles wanted to wipe them away but his arms were trapped, held down by the wrists. 

“My game,” the nogitsune said. It let go of Stiles, pointed to one of the tables, and on it, Stiles saw a board, pieces set out in round, wooden containers. It stalked over to the board. “Your move first, Stiles.”

“Why?”

The nogitsune shook a finger at him. “You should know the rules by now. White plays first.”

“Oh yeah, because I’m a saint,” Stiles said sarcastically. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. White didn’t seem like a fitting color for him at all. 

“Not at all, Stiles. Not at all.” The nogitsune was suddenly in his face again, and Stiles turned his head away at the foul scent of its breath. “You. Killed. Her.”

Then, before Stiles could say anything or make a move, the nogitsune was grabbing him by the wrist in a bruising grip and pulling him over to the table. It forced him down into a stool, then stood across from him. 

“Your move,” it hissed. 

Stiles picked up a round, white piece, feeling like he was breaking inside, and placed it on the board. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he could at least try. He liked board games. But… not when he was playing them with an ancient Japanese demon. 

The nogitsune picked up a black piece almost delicately, not using the strength it had to manhandle Stiles. It placed it on the board near Stiles’ piece, probably trying to take it. 

Stiles placed another piece in relative silence save for his sniffling, but then the nogitsune began to speak again.

“There is a way out of this, you know,” it told him. 

“Oh? And what’s that?” Stiles didn’t like anything this thing wanted him to consider.

“Seppuku,” the nogitsune answered.

“Se-what now?” Stiles asked, confused. He looked the nogitsune in the face, not wanting to appear afraid of it. But oh god, he was. This thing had ruined his life, was still trying to, was trying to take and ruin the lives of everyone in Beacon Hills. 

“Seppuku,” the nogitsune said again. Suddenly, it was pulling a short sword out of thin air, placing it on the table. Again, Stiles wondered if he was dreaming, but the nogitsune had denied it. Maybe it was just using its powers. It  _ had  _ shown itself to be a powerful being. “Also known as hara-kiri. It’s when a samurai kills himself by disemboweling himself.”

“Okay, and why would I do that?” Stiles asked, horrified. 

“Because it’ll save them,” the nogitsune said. “Scott, Lydia, your father… You want to save them, don’t you?”

Stiles clenched his jaw. Yes. He would do anything to save his friends and family. Maybe the nogitsune was right. If Stiles was gone, it couldn’t use his body to do atrocious things, couldn’t use it to hurt and maim and kill. 

Stiles reached for the short sword with a trembling hand. 

“That’s it, Stiles.”

Why was the nogitsune urging him on? Maybe this thing just wanted his death? Maybe once it got Stiles’ death, it would leave.

“Is this all you want?” Stiles asked. “My death?”

“Yes,” it answered.

So Stiles gripped the hilt of the sword, took it off the table. It was heavier than he’d imagined it to be. He tightened his grip on it, trying to stop his shaking. He was about to die, but he was resigned to it. Besides, hadn’t he deserved it even before all this? Hadn’t he deserved it for killing his mother? It was like the messages on the board said: it was his fault. 

“H-how is it done?” Stiles asked.

The nogitsune came around the table, grabbed Stiles by the shoulder and made him stand. Stiles was shaking badly. He was about to end his own life, but it was going to save everyone he cared about. He could do this. He could. 

“The samurai stabs himself in the stomach,” the nogitsune answered, taking Stiles’ hand and making him direct the sword towards himself. The point rested against his t-shirt. Stiles was breathing hard and fast, as if his lungs knew that they didn’t have long left to do this. “Then slices and twists upwards towards the lungs to make it fatal.”

Stiles took a thin breath in through his mouth. He could do this, he could do this. 

“And what happens if I don’t do this?” he asked.

The nogitsune came close, to his ear. “They. All. Die.”

That was it. That was all Stiles needed to hear. If he didn’t do this everyone he cared for would die, and he couldn’t let that happen. He just couldn’t. 

Stiles pushed the sword into his stomach with a shout. It hurt! Oh god, it hurt! He was breathing heavily as blood pooled onto his shirt, rapidly leaving his body. He looked up at the nogitsune, tears in his eyes. 

“It hurts,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Stiles. It does.” The nogitsune put one hand on his shoulder, the other taking the hand that was on the sword. He guided it, and with the help of the nogitsune, Stiles sliced himself open, a long, loud scream leaving him. Okay, okay, he was almost done. Almost done. He could do this. To save his friends, his family, all of Beacon Hills. Yes, that’s what he was doing. That’s what was important. 

Then the nogitsune was helping Stiles twist the sword upwards. Stiles gasped as it pierced his lungs, and blood came to his lips as he coughed. He felt liquid filling his lungs, burning in them. He collapsed to the floor, blood pooling around him, the sword still sticking out of him. Once he was down, his hand away from the hilt, falling to his side, the nogitsune took ahold of the sword and yanked it out of him. Stiles was in too much pain with too much blood in his lungs to scream. He was dying, and maybe that was a good thing. He deserved it after killing his own mother, after everything he’d done with the nogitsune. He hadn’t been able to stop it, but maybe this would stop it. 

Stiles choked on his own blood. He watched as the nogitsune took a black piece and set it on the board. It smiled at him with its silver fangs and hanging lip.

“The game is not over yet, Stiles.”

“But.. but you said…” His voice was raspy. No! The nogitsune had said that if he died, he wouldn’t kill anyone. It had lied to him! And now Stiles was lying in a pool of his own blood, unable to stop what was happening. He began to panic as his eyes fluttered closed. He couldn’t die, couldn’t die, couldn’t die! 

But he did. 

  
  


Stiles awoke screaming bloody murder. He writhed around in his sheets, expecting pain all over his body, blood coming up his throat. But there was nothing. There was just sweat and tears.

He sat up, taking in huge breaths. His dad hadn’t run into the room, so that meant he was working overnight. He’d had too many of those shifts lately. He was alone.

And alive, it appeared. He ran hands over himself, found no injury, no blood. Everything was intact.

Save for his mind. He picked up his phone, didn’t bother checking the time. It didn’t matter what time it was: Scott would be there for him no matter what. 

But… he hesitated. Maybe Scott shouldn’t be around him. Maybe no one should. 

Hell, he needed  _ someone  _ though. So, Stiles dialed Scott’s number and put the phone to his ear. It rang and rang and Stiles feared his best friend wouldn’t pick up, but then he did.

Stiles didn’t realize he was sobbing until Scott asked him what was wrong.

“You have t-to come over. Scott, you have to come over.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in five.”

They hung up, and while Stiles waited for Scott, he clutched one of his pillows to himself. Tears slid down his face, and he tried to stop crying, but he couldn’t. Scott had a key to the house, so he didn’t need to let him in. 

Soon, Stiles heard the roar of Scott’s bike, then the engine shutting off. The door downstairs opened, and there were rushed footsteps on the stairs.

“Stiles! I’m here!” Scott rushed into his bedroom, saw Stiles on the bed, sitting, hugging his pillow, crying. “What happened?”

“It was him,” Stiles responded shakily. “The nogitsune. It-it made me-” His words were cut off by a sob, and it was like he could feel the pain in his stomach and chest all over again, felt like if he coughed he’d taste the metal of blood. 

“What’d it make you do?” Scott sat on the bed beside Stiles. He hadn’t bothered to take off his shoes or his jacket. 

“It made me kill myself,” Stiles whispered. He looked at Scott. 

Scott touched Stiles on the shoulder, then took his hand. “Stiles, you’re still alive.”

“But how do I kn-know this is real? What if it’s just the last thing my brain is conjuring up as it goes?”

Scott shook his head. “This  _ is  _ real. I promise you. I would never lie to you.”

Stiles fell against Scott, resting his head on his shoulder, sobbing in relief and agony all at once. It was a mental agony. He was being played with. Everyone was being played with, and he could do nothing to stop it. There was something inside his head. He wasn’t alone in his own head. That horrified him. 

Scott wrapped his arms around him. “You’re okay, Stiles. You’re okay.”

“Am I?” Stiles asked, voice muffled by Scott’s jacket. “Scott, it’s… it’s in my  _ head _ .”

“We’ll stop it,” Scott told him. “I promise, we’ll stop it.”

Stiles didn’t believe Scott one bit. The nogitsune was older and more powerful than all of them combined. And it was in his head. It was in his body, like thick, choking black smoke that was suffocating him. Stiles could still smell the horrible reeking stench of its decaying body, the terribleness of its breath. 

And though he was awake, Stiles still felt like there was a sword sticking out of his stomach. 


End file.
